A minute later, Reilly and I stood on the driveway staring at the monstrous house with its enormous fountain, lion statues, and the soaring ceiling of the porch. I marched past the fountain, Reilly on my heels, and rang the doorbell. A tune chimed from inside. I tapped my booted foot, finally ringing the bell again when no one came.
“Darn. After all that, she’s not home?” Reilly said, but the words had barely left her mouth when a figure appeared from behind the beveled glass and the door swung open.
Rochelle Nolan stood before us, a pristine white Maltese in her arms. Now that I was standing in front of her, I recognized her from past publicity shots. She was every bit as glamorous as she was supposed to be, considering she was Sacramento’s version of Khloe Kardashian. The thrill of being near a celebrity went through me. My knees wobbled. Imagine what it would be like to actually meet Juanes. Or Jennifer Lopez. Or Selma Hayek.
I shut the door on those thoughts and got to work. Rochelle’s stick-straight blond hair was like a perfect sheet of golden ash. It made me wish I’d taken even just a second to run my fingers through my hair instead of haphazardly clipping it up in the back with a claw. Being painted and primped for the basketball games had made me want to do pretty much nothing when I wasn’t at a game. Au naturel, that was my new motto.
From behind me, I heard Salsa give an exploratory bark. Rochelle’s dog responded instantly, straining in her arms. It yelped, and Salsa’s deep, baritone bark responded back in a full-on barking frenzy. Oh boy.
Rochelle peered over my shoulder. “You bring your dog on your deliveries?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “A girl and her best friend.”
“Ah,” she said, as if she knew exactly what I meant. She pointed to the flowers. “Are those for me?”
“What?” Reilly stared blankly at her.
“The flowers,” I said under my breath. Reilly was a total reality-show junkie. She was starstruck.
“Oh! Yes. Sorry. Flower delivery!” She thrust the arrangement toward Rochelle, but the former dancer didn’t take it.
She lifted one shoulder, showing us her yapping Maltese. “Do you mind putting it there?” she said, turning to point to a brass-rimmed glass occasional table.
Reilly hesitated, but I put my hand on her lower back and gave a shove. Getting into Rochelle’s house was exactly what I wanted, and she’d invited us in.
Reilly put the flower arrangement on the table, stepping aside as Rochelle bent over them and breathed in. “No card?” she asked, straightening.
“Oh? I guess not.” I forged ahead before she could question us about who’d sent the flowers. “You were on that reality show, weren’t you?” I said, infusing admiration into my voice.
It worked. She stroked her hair with her free hand, preening. “Good memory,” she said. “I’ll give you an autograph if you want.”
I gave a thrilled smile. Rochelle Nolan’s autograph was the last thing on my mind, but it was a handwriting sample. Booya! I dug my notebook out of my purse. “Very exciting! I’ve never met a real live celebrity before.” I handed her a pen and as she scrawled her name across the page, I cleared my throat. “You’re not on the Royal Courtside dance team anymore, are you?”
Her face tensed, almost imperceptibly, and she shook her head as she scrawled her name. All loops and curlicues. Not the note writer. Damn. “I’m not, no.” She held out her left hand. Reilly and I stumbled back, nearly blinded by the sparkling rock on her ring finger. “I’m engaged—”
“To one of the players, right?” Reilly blurted. “Number Seven? But isn’t he married?”
I tried to mouth “cállate” to Reilly, but I couldn’t catch her gaze. Rochelle was going to kick us out before I could uncover anything.
Her lips froze, but she spoke through her teeth. “They’re separated.”
“So you haven’t set a date yet?” Reilly asked.
“Reilly,” I said with a hiss.
But Rochelle waved away my concern. “It’s not like it’s a secret. She moved out and I moved in. The divorce will be final in a few months and then Michael and I are going to Hawaii and getting married on the beach. And there won’t be a thing the former Mrs. Brothers will be able to do about it.”
I mustered up some sympathy, no easy task given that she was the other woman. But it was necessary. Maybe the current Mrs. Michael Brothers was behind the notes. “Has she been difficult?”
Rochelle’s toy dog yipped at me, and once again I wondered if humans seriously underestimated how much dogs could understand. “Shh shh, Princess.”
Rochelle stroked her Maltese, moving her fingers around the hot pink clip in Princess’s hair. The high-pitched barking didn’t stop.
My head started pounding and inside I was sending love to my barrel-chested, kick-ass boxer. No sissy barking allowed.
“You were saying?” I asked over Princess, amazed that Rochelle hadn’t questioned who we were or why we were so curious about her boyfriend’s wife. Her sheet of hair blocked her face as she cooed at Princess…who had her dark eyes trained on me. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”
Princess’s bark grew sharper and more shrill. She might be miniature, but she was suddenly fierce, baring her sharp white teeth.
“No!” I waved my hands, then pointed at the arrangement of roses and gladiolas and baby’s breath. “Just delivering flowers.”
“Flowers from whom? There’s no card. Michael doesn’t send me flowers—Oh, I know,” she said, a light bulb going off behind her eyes. “They’re from her, aren’t they? I’m surprised they’re not black roses.”
“From Mrs. Brothers? No,” I said, making a split-second decision. “I’ll be honest with you…”
“Not Mrs. Brothers.” She fanned her hand in front of her. “Oh, never mind.” Princess’s barks subsided, as if she were ready to listen to my story, too. “What. What do you want?”
“I’m a private investigator—”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You?”
I’d dressed for efficiency, in case I had to climb a fence to get near Rochelle’s house. I took mental stock of my outfit. Olive green pants, flat-heeled taupe boots, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and my favorite worn jean jacket. With my hair pulled up, loose strands framing my face, I probably appeared more like I was ready to hit a casual restaurant and browse the shops at Arden Fair.
“Yes, me. I was hired by Lance and Victoria Wolfe.” I watched her closely, trying to gauge her response.
“From the Royals?” Her eyes pinched as she peered at me. “Why?”
“Some of the dancers have received vaguely threatening notes.”
Princess snuggled closer to her. That was one thing Salsa didn’t do. She’d come stand next to me and lay her chin on my thigh, but she was too big to snuggle. If I laid down on the ground, she climbed right on top of me.
“I was there when they started. We chalked it up to a superfan. We all had plenty of those.”
She moved toward the door. “I don’t have anything to do with the Royals anymore. Hypocrites.”
Reilly and I followed slowly, stalling for time. “Why hypocrites?”
Princess started barking again as Rochelle pulled open the door. “How much time do you have? They kicked me off, but Michael can stay. It’s not fair.”
I had to agree, but double standards were everywhere. “The notes. Do you think it was about your aff—” I broke off before I offended her with the wrong word. “About your relationship with Michael?”
She shook her head. “No. Other girls got them, too.”
Precisely what Jennifer had said at our first meeting.
“Do you have any other ideas about the notes?”
Again, she shook her head. “I’m done with them. They can have their stupid rules and conquests and their secret meetings and their double standards. I have Michael.” And with that, she shut the door, leaving us on the porch, not a single step closer to the truth.
…
I sat at the conferenc
e table at Camacho & Associates, waiting for a last-minute staff meeting to start, trying not to stare at Reilly’s orange hair. In the fluorescent lighting of the office, it glowed. No wonder Rochelle Nolan had been on guard. Aside from the strange flower delivery.
Neil lumbered out of his lair, head bobbing on his shoulders, no neck between. His gaze passed over Reilly and damn it if his lip didn’t quirk. Guess he liked fluorescent.
“New case,” he said in his caveman way.
“Híjole,” I muttered. When it rained, it poured. “Busy month.” Everyone but me was overbooked, working two or more files. But mine was time-consuming so it all evened out.
“October. Riffraff.” Neil spoke in fragments and staccato statements, leaving whoever he was talking with to fill in the blanks.
I strung his thoughts together and said, “Guess so.”
I didn’t have enough experience to make such a definitive claim about October so I continued my finger-strumming on the table.
At precisely three thirty the door to Manny’s office opened and he sauntered out, his ever-present limp marring his swagger only slightly. “Sadie?”
Neil heaved his shoulders again and said, “Not here,” just as the door to the parking lot swooshed open and Sadie breezed around the corner and into the conference room. Her long red fingernails clasped the straps of her purse, the spikes of her blond hair a lighter version of her nails.
“What’s the emergency?” she demanded, not meeting Manny’s gaze, yet he was the only one who’d have the answer.
Manny ignored her and got right to business. He spent the first ten minutes reviewing his active cases with us.
Next, Neil gave an overview on his cases and added a few notes to his whiteboards. “I’ll be setting up sound outside an apartment I’ve been watching,” he finished.
No response. It was the way men operated. Manny turned to Sadie.
She sliced her claws through the air. “I don’t need any help. My cases are fine. I’m doing great.”
Her eyes were glassy. She didn’t look like she was doing great. The lavender smudges under her bloodshot eyes made me think she hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours and was running on some thin fumes.
Manny swallowed, his Adam’s apple sliding up and down his throat. His jaw pulsed as he tightened his lips. “Would you please,” he said slowly and with strained control, “review your cases.”
It was a demand, not a question.
Sadie rolled her eyes up to the ceiling and spewed out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. I’m still trying to catch a cheating husband but he’s so goddamned good at losing me when I tail him.” She ground one fist into the palm of the opposite hand. “Sonofabitch,” she added under her breath. “I’m also working on the embezzlement case at the hair salon. It’s taking way too much time. Then I have the Courtside Danc—” She broke off, tapping her nails against the table. “Oh wait, that’s not mine.”
Manny leveled a stern look at her but didn’t bite. Instead, he used her mention of the Courtside Dancers to turn to me.
“I’ve been to Rochelle Nolan’s house.” I relayed the conversation I’d had with her, ending with, “It’s possible the notes are from Michael Brothers’s wife.”
“Bueno,” he said. “¿Y más?”
Only that I’d lost a clue. My only consolation was that none of the recovered notes had yielded anything, so the chances were slim that the one delivered to Geneva would have been the same. But still…
“One of the girls got a letter yesterday. Same message. Delivered by a ball boy for the team. It was thrown away by a waitress before I could get it, but there’s another game day after tomorrow.”
I sank in my chair, sucking in a deep breath as I braced myself for the fallout, but it didn’t come from Manny. Instead, it was Sadie who shook her head at me. “Good going, Nancy Drew.”
I wondered if I’d ever get to the point where Sadie didn’t ruffle my feathers. I suspected that the answer was NO. “I tried to get it,” I explained, “but I had to keep my cover—”
“Did you go through the trash? Come on, Dolores. You claim you want this more than anything, but any detective worth her salt will take the extra steps—”
“Enough,” Manny barked. “It’s done.”
I breathed out, relieved that Sadie was finished with her rant, but inside I knew she was right. I should have done more to get back that note.
Manny’s jaw pulsed. “Anything else?”
“It’s too soon to form a hypothesis but I’m getting to know some of the women. They’re not warming up easily. It’s going to take some time.”
“So everyone’s tapped.” He moved his gaze from Neil to me to Sadie. “And we have a new case.”
Sadie laid her palm against her chest and said, “I’ll take it.”
He shook his head. “Dolores has the lightest load.”
“I said I’ll take it,” Sadie retorted as she scooted back her chair. My mother would have been impressed by the unspoken punto her tone held. I was impressed. “She already has the cream of the crop.”
That was debatable. Neither Neil nor Manny could pull off the Courtside Dancers’ outfits, though they might have enjoyed the scenery. And doing a dance routine without reminding people of an elephant? Not so easy.
Sadie waited, her nostrils flaring. My heart was ricocheting around in my chest. Let her take it, I silently willed to Manny. I didn’t want to filch another case from her and I needed to concentrate on the Courtside Dancers so I could get the hell away from duct tape, being nearly naked in front of thousands of people, and the pain of perpetual exercise.
Manny paused before saying, “It’s yours then. Insurance fraud. Primarily surveillance.”
Sadie waggled her head, seething. Insurance fraud was nobody’s idea of fun. I bit my lower lip, holding in a snicker. She’d been duped by a master. “You’ve got to be kidding.” She swallowed. Hard. “You can’t do this. I have rights here.”
I snuck a peek at Reilly, who raised her dark eyebrows at me. She was queen of office chisme and her gossip revealed that Manny and Sadie had done the deed once or twice. Which was intel I would have preferred not to know, but it explained the arctic temperature in the conference room. By the way she perched on the edge of her chair, I knew Reilly was as curious as I was. I suspected we were both confident that Manny and Sadie were talking about more than the case at this point.
“I never kid,” Manny said, his voice calm and controlled. “You should know that by now.”
Yikes. Round one to Camacho. Over and out.
Chapter Seven
“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Antonio said.
“No problem,” I said, “pero I have to leave by five o’clock.”
“Sure thing. I’ll catch the end of the shift.”
I did a double take. Sure thing? I’ll catch the end of the shift? Something was up. I lowered my chin and leveled my wary eyes at him. “¿Qué pasa, hermano?”
He gave me his patented Cheshire cat grin, his lips disappearing under the hair of his goatee. “Nada. What’s up with you? What’d you do yesterday?”
My stomach clenched at the question. “Oh, you know, this and that.”
He lifted his chin as his eyelids lowered. “Uh-huh.”
“I was working on a new case,” I offered, taking the tray of silverware out to the tables.
As I laid the wrapped bundles down at each place on the first table and moved on to the next, I felt Antonio’s gaze burning into me. I wheeled around to face him. “What?”
He flung his hands up, palms out, and pasted an innocent expression on his face. “Nothing.”
Alarms went off in my head. Damn. Did he know I was moonlighting as a cheerleader? He was a Royals fan, but surely he would have been working during the game, not catching it on TV.
I schooled my face, making it as impassive as I could. He didn’t say another word, just sauntered back to the kitchen to check on the food prep. Which left me wonderin
g exactly what he knew…if anything.
I stared after him, exhaling the pent-up breath I’d been holding. My imagination was getting the better of me. There was no way he knew anything. Even if he’d seen the game, it wasn’t like the cameramen took many close-ups of the dancers. We did our full routines during commercial breaks, and even if he saw the game, I’d been on the sidelines. I deposited the last of the silverware bundles at my grandparents’ booth.
“Mija, dame nietos,” my grandmother said, her knitting needles clicking against each other in constant rhythm.
“Give you grandchildren? Abeulita, we’ve been through this,” I said in Spanish. “I’m not married, and I don’t have any immediate prospects.” Even with Jack in the picture. “Habla con Gracie.” My sister was a happily married schoolteacher. Kids were in her immediate future.
My grandmother shook her head, as if I were a sister at the Order of the Benedictine Sisters of Guadalupe and I’d just told her I was leaving the Church. Her knitting needles clicked together faster.
My grandfather, meanwhile, stretched his arm out from the table and held the falcon on top of his cane. “Dolores, have you given up this foolishness?”
“What foolishness is that, Abuelo?” Their list of my follies was long and detailed. Topping it was the fact that I was a good Catholic girl who hadn’t settled down to raise a passel of good Catholic babies. Being a P.I. tied with first place.
After setting my tray on their table, I crossed my arms and waited for the lecture.
“Ah, hay mucho,” my grandmother said. She reached out a gnarled finger and touched my arm, reciting the rosary under her breath in Spanish. Since my last case when I’d been reported as dead, she prayed for my soul daily. Multiple times. A month ago she had thought I was gone. She was still coming to terms with it, touching me and wondering if I were real.
I pulled away, scolding her. “Abuela.”
“Tu trabajo.” Grandfather paused, thinking, then stuck a finger in the air and continued in his mafioso hiss. “Y tu novio,” he added, referring to Jack.
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